


Sensory Overload (or, Five Times Erin and Holtzmann Showed Everyone Else They Love Each Other (And That One Time They Actually Said So To Each Other))

by Lysippe



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, Five Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:07:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysippe/pseuds/Lysippe
Summary: Drs. Erin Gilbert and Jillian Holtzmann: masters of self-delusion.This is sort of a character study on Erin and Holtzmann's relationship, and its various manifestations in their lives.





	1. Taste

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr account is thebestdressedrebelinhistory, so feel free to visit me on there as well.

Holtzmann brings Erin coffee every morning. _Every_ morning. From an actual coffee shop. Which Holtzmann frequents despite the fact that she drinks neither coffee nor tea, because Erin thinks they have the best cappuccinos in Manhattan.

Holtzmann wouldn’t know, because she doesn’t drink coffee. But she takes Erin’s word for it.

In truth, that coffee excursion is one of her favorite parts of her day. So she walks the ten blocks to and from the café (“it’s not THAT out of the way”) every morning, summer or winter, rain or shine (she fashioned a tiny drink-umbrella for when it rains, so she doesn’t present Erin with soggy coffee; Abby thinks she should patent it).

And she holds The Most Important Cup of Coffee in the World like it’s made of solid gold and so much as sloshing is contents might make it explode.

It’s the most caution anyone has ever seen Holtzmann show with anything.

Kevin once asked her why she didn’t bring him coffee. (“Kev, you hate coffee _._ ” “So?” “So, _you hate coffee._ ” “Yeah, but so do you, boss.”)

(Holtzmann didn’t have a comeback for that.)

Abby asked her about it once, but Holtzmann just said she liked the walk. (“It’s good to get your leg muscles moving before getting your brain muscle moving.” “Holtzmann, the brain is an organ.” “Like I said.”)

Patty never asked, and never plans to. This is obviously some sort of bizarre courtship ritual and she wants _literally nothing to do with it ever_. Because you don’t mess with Holtzmann when she has Feelings, especially Feelings She Doesn’t Know She Has. (Abby says she learned that lesson the hard way, and it involved a medium-sized explosion and the loss of half of someone's left eyebrow. She refuses to say whose.)

But somehow, miraculously, Erin _doesn’t see it at all_. If she notices that Holtzmann only brings coffee for her, she doesn’t let on. For the first few weeks, everyone is pretty sure she didn’t even realize it was Holtzmann at all. She just came in one morning, shortly after what Holtzmann had taken to calling the Ghostpocalypse (everyone agrees that it’s a stupid name, but it’s fun to say), and there was coffee and a pastry on her desk.

 _Her favorite coffee,_ and _her favorite pastry_. _From her favorite café_.

And Erin was confused at first, because no one else seemed even remotely perturbed by this occurrence, because “Nah, baby, wasn’t me. Looks good, though.” (Patty); “Erin, if I brought you coffee, you know you’d know about it.” (Abby); “Ugh, I hate coffee.” (Kevin); and, “Maybe it was a ghost. Grab Abby’s cotton candy maker and check it out.” (Holtzmann).

But Holtzmann really _does_ love it. It’s the closest she has ever come to having a morning ritual (she insists that unpredictability is the spice of life; Erin thinks it’s a recipe for disaster), and she can almost-sort-of-kind-of-understand-why-people-like-this-stuff (if she squints her eyes and turns her head exactly 47 degrees).

The café smells like roasting coffee beans, off-brand cologne, and misplaced pretention, and the cute barista with the labret piercing and the undercut flirts with her (she flirts back because honestly, is there another reaction to being flirted with?), and no one knows her name, only that every morning she orders a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant (Holtzmann doesn’t like chocolate, either). It’s nice.

But not as nice as the look on Erin’s face when she finds her breakfast sitting on her desk.

Nothing is that nice.


	2. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have a problem. Like, I have a real problem with the Abby-knows-all trope. And I love it, and I love writing Abby, but Jesus Christ, I have a problem.

Erin lets Holtzmann touch her.

It’s so subtle that even Abby misses it for a while, and even after she realizes what’s going on, she’s not totally sure that she didn’t just make it up. Because it’s _weird._

But once she _does_ notice, it’s _everywhere she looks_ , in _everything they do_. It's Holtzmann giving Erin a small squeeze of the hand or pat on the back before missions; tapping her on the shoulder to get her attention; shamelessly using Erin as a pillow while marathoning _Ghost Jumpers_ (and okay, to be fair, Holtzmann does that to everyone because people are basically furniture to her, but it’s _Erin,_ and it’s _weird_ ).

And of _course_ she’s aware that Holtzmann is infatuated with Erin. She’s been infatuated with Erin since the moment she waltzed into their lab in that stupid suit with her stupid bowtie and that stupid stick shoved so far up her stupid ass, Abby had been a little concerned that it might rupture one of her internal organs. And maybe, _maybe_ Abby had been a little too preoccupied with the whole hating Erin’s guts thing to notice at first. But no one could miss that forever (except, apparently, Erin). After all, Holtzmann flirts like she does everything else in her life: with all the subtlety of a hearse with a ghost on it and a distinctly un-American sounding siren.

And it would have been more or less impossible, knowing Erin, and knowing Holtzmann, to _not_ notice. Because _Erin doesn’t like being touched_. She doesn’t like hugs, and she doesn’t like holding hands, and she doesn’t like pats on the back or cuddling or _any other physical contact_. Pretty much ever. Abby has watched her for years, squirming uncomfortably and pulling awkwardly away from hugs and handshakes and everything in between.

And the most baffling thing about it all is that at no point has Erin ever shown any sign of even thinking about doing any of those things with Holtzmann.

In fact, Abby is pretty sure she saw her lean _in_ once. (But she might have imagined that, because there is only so much disbelief that she can suspend.) But like that one time she walked in on her parents in third grade, Abby can’t un-see the sudden shift in Erin and Holtzmann’s dynamic. (Not that she particularly wants to, and she would be totally fine if this replaced that mental image, because it still haunts her well over thirty years later. But it feels a little like having a secret that she can’t tell her friends, and Abby doesn’t like secrets.)

And she _really_ can’t tell them, because Erin is gun shy and Holtzmann doesn’t do feelings well, and Abby knows both of them better than to think that interfering would do anything other than explode violently in all of their faces. But that’s fine, because as weird and unsettling as it is, it’s also a little like watching two awkward teenagers flirting-but-not- _flirting_ with the idea of being together, which is kind of hilarious and kind of adorable and pretty fun, if she’s being completely honest.

And it’s not _bad_ weird, or anything. Not the kind of thing she would try to bring to their attention, or put a stop to, or really feel any sort of serious concern about whatsoever (yet).

But it _is_ weird, and Abby honestly just doesn’t know how to react, because Erin never flirts, and Holtzmann never gets the girl, and ghosts were nowhere near as much of a mindfuck as this is.

 


	3. Hearing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooooooo, I don't usually write Patty and tbh I think I have the worst grasp on her voice of all the Ghostbusters, but I felt like she was the right narrator for this chapter, and I really need to break the habit of writing Holtzbert through Abby all the time anyway. Besides, she's cranky as hell and that was fun.

Patty can hear it in the way they talk about each other, talk _to_ each other, talk _anytime the other is around at all_. Everyone can. But Patty thinks she hears it the most, because it’s goddamn _everywhere_.

She’s so sure of it, that subtle shift in Erin’s voice when she’s talking to Holtzmann that changes from Being A Professional (even when she’s not) to something softer and warmer and honestly just more thoughtlessly _human_. Because Patty is certain that the only time Erin Gilbert really has a sense of humor is when Holtzmann is there, and maybe she’s wrong or maybe he’s exaggerating, but she’s pretty damn sure that’s the only time Erin ever laughs (at least, it’s the only time she ever laughs without _thinking about it_ first).

And that’s not even beginning to consider the way Holtzmann’s laugh is deeper, throatier, louder whenever Erin is in the room. Like she pulls it out of _everything inside her_ , just because it’s there and she _can_. And Patty has _no damn idea_ how Erin doesn’t _see_ it, because Holtzmann is as subtle as a proton pack to the face, and everything she does when Erin is anywhere near her screams, “Notice me!” Like the way she drawls Erin’s name in a low, flirtatious “Doctor _Gilbert_ ,” (ostentatious wink and all). Or the little hitch in her voice that disappears as fast as it appears (but it _does_ appear, without fail) every time Erin says her name. And the way she takes care to go into _extra detail_ when explaining her work to Erin, because Erin always understands, and she’s always impressed.

_Every damn thing_ she does is _begging_ for attention, and she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

But _literally everyone else_ does.

Even _Kevin_ has picked up on it, and Patty didn’t even know that Kevin _could_ pick up on things, bless his soul. Though he seems to be under the impression that it all has something to do with them being ‘roommates.’ (Abby tried to explain to him that Erin and Holtzmann don’t actually _live_ in their shared second floor workspace, but Patty doesn’t think he understood, because he followed up with a question about where they put their bed. _Bed_. Singular.)

And Patty is a firm believer in Not Getting Involved In Other People’s Lives, because that shit never ends well for anyone, and she’s not in the market for any interpersonal drama, but _damn_. Erin can’t see it, and Holtzmann doesn’t _want_ to see it, and it’s like watching the slowest sitcom ever, except Patty doesn’t like sitcoms and she doesn’t like beating around the bush and she doesn’t like that she and _every other damn person around_ can see that it would take all of two minutes for them to clear the air if one of them would actually just _say something_.

But they _won’t_ , and she’s going to lose her damn mind because there is a _finite fucking amount_ of flirting that one human being can watch in their day-to-day life, and Holtzmann alone is doubling it, easily.

And Patty is gonna be _real_ mad if they make her break her policy of non-interference, because it’s served her damn well in her life (except that time she joined the Ghostbusters, that turned out pretty okay), and really all she wants is for them to _pull their heads out of damn asses_ so she can get back to her normal life (she tries not to think about the fact that her definition of “normal” now includes hunting ghosts for a living).

She really doesn’t think that’s asking too much, but apparently it is.


	4. Smell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to iliveinfantasies (literally the best human on earth, and a bomb ass fic writer, too) for the idea for this chapter. She took pity on me when I was floundering so hard because smell is NOT my forte when it comes to writing (apparently it's hers), and this idea was perfect, and I love her.

Erin smells like strawberries. 

Well, at first she smells a lot like lavender, and a little bit like strawberries, and Abby almost doesn’t notice, except Erin has smelled like lavender _everything_ for as long as Abby has known her: lavender dryer sheets and lavender body wash and the same lavender Herbal Essences shampoo she used in high school (it was a dark time when they changed the bottles; Abby doesn’t like to talk about it). Someone told her once that lavender was calming, and Abby thinks Erin took that piece of information a little too literally.

(Erin once tried to switch to a nicer shampoo, one that smelled like grapefruit and apparently made hair shinier and stronger, but while she admitted that while her hair was noticeably softer and less frizzy, it was also too different and she didn’t like how it sat in a ponytail, and that was the last time Erin changed any part of her beauty routine. Until the strawberries.) 

But steadily, the strawberries began to overpower everything else, and Erin (who hates change more than pretty much anything), bizarrely, doesn’t seem to think _anything of it_. She keeps strawberry scented candles, and air freshener, and apparently some weird, expensive natural brand makes strawberry-scented dryer sheets because she even has those.

And that’s how Abby knows that something is up, because Erin _hates_ strawberries. Not that it did Abby any good to confront her with that fact, because no one can delude themselves quite like Erin can. (“Erin, you think they taste like sugar coma.” “I’m coming around! Broadening my horizons! Trying new things!” “You refused to eat your fruit salad yesterday because you said the strawberries had _contaminated_ it.” “That’s different.”)

And that’s when Abby realizes that the only other thing she knows of that smells like strawberries is Holtzmann’s conditioner (the kind that comes in a bottle that costs $.79 at the drug store, because a dollar amount can, in fact, be placed on how much Holtzmann cares about her hair, and it’s $.79 per 12.5 fluid ounces). She has spent enough time in a cramped lab with Holtzmann over the years that she smell of strawberries and motor oil is ingrained into her senses in a way that is distinctly and irrevocably Holtzmann.

Except now it’s also Erin, and it’s _messing her up_.

But there’s a finite amount of this that Abby – or any sane human – can take, and she just _can’t_ with the fleeting touches and the deep-bellied laughs and the coffee _every damn morning_ and goddammit, would it _kill_ Holtzmann to bring her a cup every now and then, and she doesn’t think it’s fair at all that _other people’s_ romantic tension has her this tense, but Erin and Holtzmann are her best friends, and they’re driving her crazy, and they’re driving each other crazy, and they’re driving _everyone else_ crazy, too, and it has to stop. Yesterday. 

And she groans every time Erin walks into the room smelling like the sweetest days of spring, because she knows – she _knows_ , within an inch of her soul – that they’re all in for the long haul here, if Erin feels strongly enough that she is willing to change her day-to-day routine.

Because Erin doesn’t change her routine for anyone.

Ever. 

Except, apparently, for Holtzmann.


	5. Sensory Overload

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooooookay. So, this is up, and it went in a direction I was only half expecting, and I held back on Erin as a narrator until now for this, because I have Feelings! about Erin, so I mean, here ya go. Enjoy??? (I'm thebestdressedrebelinhistory on Tumblr, go visit me.)

Erin is a mess. An absolute, unquestionable, quantitatively provable mess, and she can’t _do_ anything about it, because Erin Gilbert doesn’t _do something_ about her problems.

She pretends like they don’t exist until they either go away, or she is so used to their presence in her life that they no longer feel like a problem, like any sane, rational adult. Not that anyone, anywhere, would say that Erin is either sane or rational, but Erin likes to think she does an okay job at pretending most days.

Or at least, she did. Before Holtzmann.

These days, she can’t ignore anything. Not the persistent, agonizing voice in the back of her mind reminding her of everything Holtzmann has ever done that made Erin love her ( _stop that_ ). Not the warmth that blossoms up from her chest, leaving a trail of pink (pink nose, pink cheeks, pink ears) in its wake, whenever Holtzmann gives her hand a squeeze, or taps her on the nose, or jostles her shoulder (she’s a _mess_ ). Not the coffee every morning (she tries _so hard_ to pretend it’s not a big deal). Not the timbre of her voice when Erin is near (it’s _not_ different, it’s _not_ it’s _not_ it’s _not;_ but it _is_ ). Definitely not the strawberry shampoo that overwhelms all of her other senses just by _existing_ (because that would be weird, and strange, and Erin _hates_ strawberries… unless they’re on Holtzmann). 

She can’t _help it_ , and she _hates_ it, but she also doesn’t, and she hates that she doesn’t hate it as much as she thinks she should, and ( _stop it_ ).

And she _knows_ , of course she knows, exactly what is going on here. This isn’t Erin’s first merry go round (though admittedly none of the others were this shiny and musical and beautiful and _stop. it._ ). She’s fallen in love before ( _don’t say that_ ), and she’ll probably fall in love again (she doubts that very much, but she tells herself she will anyway), and she just has to ignore it until it goes away, because that’s always worked so well for her in the past.

It’s definitely not how she ended up spending her fortieth birthday alone in her white-walled-white-ceilinged-white-furnished closet of a living room, only a lone cupcake with a single candle in it (she appreciated the stereotype, no matter how depressing it was) as any indication that something good had happened (she hadn’t been sure living another year was good at the time).

Or how she ended up walking away from the only person who had ever stood by her, unquestionably, unconditionally, unflinchingly, against the constant onslaught of ridicule that had managed to follow Erin from high school straight into college (it’s not like she didn’t always know that Abby was far too good a friend for her, but that night had proved it beyond all doubt).

And it was no questions asked, 100%, definitely _not_ how she had managed to spend three years of her life with a man who cared more about her professional accomplishments than he had about her; who fucked her once every other week on a Saturday night in a dark bedroom, and cooked her dinner four times a year like clockwork as a _surprise_ (chicken parmesan; Erin hated cheese), and prioritized stability, predictability, and practicality above all else (she had, too, then).

(Except that’s exactly how those things happened.)

She could, for the most part, ignore those things (she couldn’t, but she could do a good job of telling herself she could).

She _can’t. ignore. this._

Any of it.

She can’t ignore how she _feels_ Holtzmann’s hand on her lower back ( _soft, warm, solid_ ); _tastes_ the residual coffee on her tongue ( _bitter, creamy, smooth_ ); _smells_ that unique blend of motor oil and strawberries that she has grown to love without realizing it ( _acrid, sweet, dirty_ ); _hears_ her laugh ( _low, heady, brimming with mirth_ ).

And it’s a level of excitement that she hasn’t felt since a seventeen-year-old girl with big black glasses and a turtleneck sweater had waltzed up to her desk before AP chemistry, stuck out her hand, and said, “I’m Abby Yates, and I believe you, ghost girl.”

But she can’t do this, of course she can’t. It’s not like she isn’t aware that Holtzmann feels _something_ for her. Erin didn’t survive this long by being completely oblivious. But she has no idea what that _something_ is, and it wouldn’t matter even if she did, because she _can’t do this_.

Erin is ten years older than Holtzmann, and she doesn’t care, _really_ she doesn’t care about that, but Holtzmann is young and beautiful and vibrant and so full of life, and she’s just… _not_ (never has been, never will be). And Holtzmann may have definitely-not-killed a man at CERN, but Erin has an impressive track record of destroying everything and everyone good who comes into her life, and even Holtzmann has to realize that, because once upon a time, she was there to pick up the pieces Erin left behind. (Holtzmann would _not_ abandon Abby, and she would _not_ abandon Erin, and that automatically makes her too good for her.)

And it is all of these things that Erin reminds herself of the morning Holtzmann stands in front of her, dripping from the rain and clutching a white paper cup with a tiny plaid umbrella clipped to its black plastic lid, eyes uncertain and shoulders tense (oh, the irony), and says, in the most uncharacteristically measured, slow, cautious tone Erin has ever heard her use, the words that Erin thinks might just break her into a thousand pieces:

“And Erin, can we please at least _see_ where this goes? I know it’s not just me, and—“

(Well, that’s what Erin hears, anyway. She might have blacked out a little before and after that point.)

And all she can think is, _say no. Say no say no say no say –_

She doesn’t say no.

She doesn’t say yes, either.

She doesn’t say okay or sure or yeah-of-course. 

She doesn’t even nod like an idiot.

What she does do, is both a thousand times better, and a thousand times worse, than any of those things.

She leans in, and kisses Holtzmann, and she doesn’t taste like strawberries or motor oil or coffee. She tastes like lipstick, waxy and artificial and familiar, and Erin hates herself a little more because she _hates_ the taste of lipstick.

Except when it’s on Holtzmann.

And then she realizes that she should never, ever know what Holtzmann tastes like, and Holtzmann apparently foresaw this crisis happening, because Erin _feels_ the warmth of her hand gripping her tricep, holding her in place; _smells_ the slightly sulfurous scent of rain on Holtzmann’s skin; _tastes_ her lipstick; _hears_ her voice, hoarse and desperate and slightly terrified, in her ear:

“Erin, _please_. _Stay_. Don’t run away from me, too.”

And she should say _no_. She should give the tens of thousands of reasons why that is a _terrible fucking idea_ , and she should top that list with _because I’ll break you, too_.

But she doesn’t.

She doesn’t and she doesn’t want to and she couldn’t even if she did, because she _can’t_ deny herself and she _can’t_ deny Holtzmann and she _can’t_ deny the chance at something real because it’s everything she ever wanted but told herself she didn’t, and she’ll just have to _suck it the fuck up_ and be _better_ , and she doesn’t know if she can actually do that, but she can’t walk away, either, so she’ll just have to figure it out.

_“I won’t_ ,” she says, barely a whisper in the air.

_“Good.”_

It’s the only thing Holtzmann says before her lips are back on Erin’s, and her free hand is at her waist, and Erin feels sees hears tastes _everything_ , and it’s the kind of perfectly imperfect that she always thought was something unhappy people made up to make themselves feel better (she would know).

And she swallows hard, tastes wax and cinnamon toothpaste, and Erin is a _mess_. An absolute, unquestionable, quantitatively provable mess. 

And she doesn’t want to do anything about it.


	6. Sight (an epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE'RE DONE. I'm sorry for this one, I honestly just couldn't resist and it kind of felt like the perfect ending because I've been holding out for this chapter in a way, saving something lighter for last, and I know it's probably not everyone's ideal ending, but tbh it's kinda mine, so...

Kevin sees everything.

He isn’t as dense as people think he is, and it’s not like he hasn’t noticed that Erin and Holtzmann walk into the firehouse holding hands, or like he didn’t see that one time Holtzmann cornered Erin just outside the stairwell, hands wound in her hair, and kissed her, until Erin had squirmed away and mumbled something Kevin couldn’t hear. And he _definitely_ noticed the way her cheeks had turned an interesting shade of pink for the rest of the day every time Holtzmann glanced her way, waggled her eyebrows, and glanced away quickly, whistling innocently along to Devo or DeBarge or some other music Kevin only knows from constant repetition.

That happened four times that day, and that was just when he was _watching_.

And it’s not like he hasn’t seen this happening for the last four days, and _obviously_ whatever happened between them is over, and they’re back together again, and he doesn’t understand why no one else has said anything, because this is _great news,_ and he couldn’t be happier for them, and he really thinks that everyone else should be, too.

So, of course, he shares the good news, because good news _should_ be shared. 

And he says, “Hey, guess what! I think Erin and Holtzmann are back together again! I just saw them holding hands on their way back from that café Erin likes, although I don’t know why because coffee is disgusting, and Holtzmann said something about _making the barista jealous_ , so you know what that means.”

Their reaction is _not_ what he expected.

Abby stares at him.

Patty stares at him and shakes her head.

And then, Abby stares at Patty, who shakes her head again and says, “I’m not touching this one.”

And Abby sighs a long, deep sigh.

“Kevin…” Abby says, slowly. “That happened _six months ago._ Erin and Holtzmann got together _six months ago_. Did you really just notice?”

And okay, they only started making out in the stairwell a few days ago, but it’s not like he hasn’t seen them making eyes at each other, or laughing a little louder and smiling a little brighter and touching just a longer for well over a year now, and it’s not _his_ fault that Abby and Patty obviously aren’t as observant as he is.

Because he’s known all along.

Probably even longer than Erin and Holtzmann.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm soooorrrryyyy. I really, really just wanted to end with Kevin because I love writing Kevin and I thought it would be fun to set up this particular situation, so if this wasn't the ending you wanted, feel free to kill me but I have no regrets, sorrynotsorry. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who stuck with this fic from the beginning, and to everyone who is coming in now. You're all too kind, and I love you, and once again, my Tumblr URL is thebestdressedrebelinhistory, so feel free to go stalk me on there. Adieu, my lovelies, for now. Until we meet again.


End file.
